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CHAPTER VI 



A RETURN TO NATURE 



I TURN into my next inn with unusual hopes. For 

 it was here some years ago that I met for the first time 

 a remarkable man. It was nine o'clock on a late July 

 evening, and the haymakers, only just set free, came 

 stamping into the bar. The last waggon-load stopped 

 at the door while the red-whiskered carter stood, one hand 

 on the latch, and drank his pint before leading his horses 

 into the stall. After the haymakers, in their pale 

 corduroys and dirty white slops, came a tall, spare, shock- 

 headed man, not recently shaved, dressed in grey — grey 

 coat, grey breeches and stockings, and a tall, hard felt hat 

 that was old and grey. He called for sixpenny ale, and 

 wiping the hay dust from his neck sat down beside me. 



No, he is not here to-day. Perhaps he will never get 

 out of London again. 



I asked him the way to the nearest village, and whether 

 a bed was to be had there. He answered that it was 

 some way off — paused, looked at me, drank from his 

 tankard — and added in a lower voice that he would be 

 glad if I would come and share his place. Such an 

 unusual invitation enforced assent. 



A quarter of a mile down the next by-way he opened 

 a little oaken gate that slammed after us, and there, in a 

 corner of a small, flat field, was his sleeping place, under 

 an oak. Would I care to join him in fried bacon and 

 broad beans and tea at six the next morning? 



73 



